Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 111165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
But guilt finds me easily and it wasn’t long before I started feeling horrible for shunning him when he needs the most help. He’s not my problem, I know this but…I can’t seem to separate that from my life. It just is what it is and I’m always going to feel like I need to do something.
So, my father called last night when I got home and I answered and now we’re meeting him and my aunt at a P.F. Changs in Irvine. He’s been staying with her for the last week and when I talked to him on the phone, he sounded completely sober.
But who knows. Going to restaurants where alcohol is offered is always a dicey move and though none of us will have anything stronger than coffee, it’s a temptation that’s staring him in the face.
“It’s going to be fine,” Laz says. “Come on.”
We get out of the car and head into the restaurant, the tangy smell of the food wafting over us.
My father and Aunt Margaret are at the hostess desk waiting for a table. There’s a split second before they’ll see us so I use it to scope out their posture, their faces, their mannerisms.
My dad’s back is straight, carrying himself stiffly. In a way, that’s good. He’s probably sober, probably nervous too. I told him last night that I might bring Laz and he must have some idea that Laz took care of him that night. Or maybe he doesn’t know at all. Maybe he’s nervous for the same reason I’m nervous.
My aunt is a skinny, frail-looking woman with a mess of frizzy, brown curls and thick glasses, but her tongue is sharp and she’s stronger than she looks. She’s smiling at my father though, as if they were talking about something amusing and she seems relaxed.
That’s good. Maybe this will be okay.
Then my father sees us. His face breaks into a toothy grin, the exact same smile I inherited from him. It’s not forced at all, I know he’s happy to see me, and it immediately dissolves the hardness around my heart. This is the problem, this has always been the problem. When he’s sober, he’s my father. He even looks like a different person than the one we saw the other night.
“Marina!” he exclaims with open arms.
He envelopes me in a hug and without hesitation I hug him back. If anything I hug him harder, as if I’m trying to hold onto the person I know he can be.
“Hi Dad,” I tell him, smiling against him, and for a quick but weighted moment I’m ten years old, running through the house to him after he comes home from work, my mother cooking dinner in the kitchen. It’s bittersweet.
“Dad,” I tell him as I pull away. “You remember Laz?”
I watch him carefully as he looks to Laz. There’s a faint hesitation in his smile and when it comes, it’s slightly forced. Not in an unfriendly way, but in an embarrassed one. I think he remembers that night, maybe not in detail and that’s for the best, but he remembers Laz was there.
But Laz, bless his heart, he just sticks out his hand, shakes my father’s and gives him a big smile and hearty slap on the back. “Good to see you Mr. Owens,” Laz says.
“Nick,” he says. “Please call me Nick.”
“And this is my Aunt Margaret,” I say, flashing her a smile.
Margaret shakes Laz’s hand firmly. “Nice to meet you.”
She’s a tough nut to crack, but this is good enough for now.
The hostess seats us at the table and small talk ensues.
A lot of it is focused on Laz. They’re interested in his poetry, in his music, in England. Aunt Margaret spent a lot of time in England and Scotland when she was younger, so she likes to talk about Manchester and the Mancunian accent, how it differs from so many of the other ones.
Laz talks to them with ease. He’s not always the most sociable guy, I suppose the stereotype of the quiet, broody, and introverted writer is quite suited to him. But when he does talk to people, he has this way of giving them his utmost attention and keeps the conversation going when it lulls.
Eventually though, the reason for the meeting comes up.
“Marina,” my father says after we’ve polished off Kung Pao’s chicken. “I’ve decided to sell the house.”
The term house is a bit of an exaggeration but still I’m surprised. “What? Why?”
He and my aunt exchange a look. “It’s, uh…I need help, little girl. More help than you or Margaret can give me. It isn’t fair to both of you that I can’t take care of myself, especially you. After everything I’ve put you through—I can’t stand to put you through anymore.”
“So what does this mean?”
“It means that I’m going to sell the house, I’m going to go to a detox and rehab center for as long as I can. There’s one in the hills, by our old place in Ramona. Then after that, maybe a group home.”